by Brad Meltzer
She shot him a look, her pointy features hitting him like a spear.
“Fine. Be a mule. But don’t be so stubborn that you make a decision you’ll regret in two minutes. C’mon. You don’t even have to talk to me.”
Nola didn’t like Zig. She understood him more, but she still didn’t like him. “My bag’s behind the—”
“I see it. I got it,” Zig said, grabbing the shopping bag that hung off the push bar of the wheelchair. It was filled with clothes, meds, and post-surgery instructions.
“Watch your feet,” Zig added, steering the wheelchair out the front door, to an old 2011 Honda Odyssey.
“A minivan?”
“Borrowed it from work. Figured it’d have more legroom for you.”
“Dover has minivans?”
“Most mortuaries do. When you’re moving caskets, the seats go down in back and—”
“I got it,” Nola said. Outside, in the cold, she noticed an Asian woman with a weak chin—a doctor—on her cell phone, pacing back and forth. The doctor had cracked, dried lips, which she kept licking. No lip balm. Unprepared. Or lazy. Or maybe just strong.
As they reached the passenger side of the van, Zig went to help Nola out of the wheelchair.
She waved him off, maneuvering the crutches into place and hopping up on one foot. She opened the door herself, sliding into the front passenger seat.
Inside, the minivan smelled lemony fresh, no dust, the dashboard all shine. Better than most in the military, but that’s how everything was at Dover. Still, Nola noticed that one of the knobs was missing from the radio, the front windshield had a small chip from where a rock hit it, and down by her left hip, there was a stray thread in the stitching of her leather seat.
“You buckled in?”
She nodded.
Neither of them said another word as they headed past the mom-and-pop shops that dotted Main Street, half the redbrick storefronts looking new and refurbished, the other half dwindling and marked with For Lease signs, as if the town itself still hadn’t decided if it was living or dying.
Nola stayed silent as Zig turned left onto 301 South, the landscape widening out and looking like every other four-lane commercial byway in America, all the mom-and-pops replaced by Walgreens and Pizza Huts.
Within a few miles, the landscape expanded yet again, the storefronts now gone. On either side of the highway was nothing but acres upon acres of farmland, for as far as the eye could see, all of it dusted with patches of snow.
“Those are wheat and barley fields,” Zig said, pointing to a wide swath of land on their right. “You’d think the frost would be bad, but it’s actually warm under the snow. Helps the smaller grains thrive.”
Nola lowered her visor to block the orange sun that teetered in the late afternoon sky as it waited to set in the distance. As the shadow hit her face, her leg was in pain. She shifted in her seat, but didn’t say a word.
“I’m sorry you got fired,” Zig said after a moment.
Nola turned toward him, trying to decide if she was surprised the news traveled so fast. So far, the White House had been able to keep it out of the papers—and apparently was still working with local law enforcement to avoid prosecution—but after all that Nola had done: sneaking back onto her old base, attacking Markus and dragging him onto that boat, plus pulling the trigger on both Houdini and Royall…
Self-defense. That’s what Nola’s military-appointed lawyer called it. The White House didn’t argue. They’d never admit it, but the President’s team was probably thankful Royall and Houdini were gone. With them dead, cleanup would be that much easier. Operation Bluebook would get a new name, everyone who worked there would stay protected, and their good work could continue. Life moves on. Nola knew the truth, though; she knew it days ago. Even if the White House was happy, this was still the military. Doesn’t matter if you save the day—once you kick the chain of command, there had to be consequences.
“I saw they named a new Artist-in-Residence,” Zig added. “That must’ve been a tough job to say goodbye to.”
Nola didn’t answer.
“After all you did, though…I’m surprised they only gave you a general discharge.”
“Under honorable conditions,” she clarified.
He nodded. “You can apply for a recharacterization in six months. I bet they’ll change it. They’ll bust balls, but you’ll get your honorable discharge.”
Nola stared straight ahead, the shadow from the car’s visor making it look like she was wearing a blindfold.
“Nola, if it makes you feel better, I told them how helpful y—”
“Why are you here, Mr. Zigarowski? Are you looking for a thank-you? Is that why you made the trip?”
Zig didn’t even turn at the question. He knew it was coming.
Tapping his thumbs on the steering wheel, Zig let out a sigh. His voice was soft, softer than she’d ever heard it. “Master Guns told me you were healing just fine, but I guess…I wanted to see for myself. Wanted to make sure you were okay, see what you were doing next.”
“And that’s it?”
“That’s it.”
The car hit a small bump, a divot in the road, sending a flashbulb of sunlight into Nola’s eyes and another shockwave of pain through her leg.
She glanced over at Zig. The orange sun lit him up, revealing all the lines in his face. Smile lines. Frown lines. And so many worry lines.
“Painting,” she blurted.
“Pardon?”
“They fired me… You asked what I was doing next. Painting. I’ll keep painting.”
“Like for a gallery?”
She hit him with the kind of look that twenty-six-year-olds give to fifty-year-olds. Don’t be a shmuck. “The Army made me their Artist-in-Residence for a reason. I like seeing the world. I figure I’ll take my pastels, travel around, see what I can find.”
“So kick up some trouble?”
Nola shot him another look, rolling her eyes. She then reached for the glove compartment. Inside, she found a pad and an old Cracker Barrel pen. She rested the pad on her good leg and began sketching. “I was thinking of starting in New Orleans. Never been there.”
“You’ll love it,” Zig said, watching her pen scratch at the page.
“What about you, Mr. Zigarowski? You staying at Dover?”
He nodded. “This is where my life is. Plus, all the fallen soldiers… I like the job. Lets me help people.”
Ahead of them, the road veered to the right, past the longest wheat and barley field they’d seen thus far, Zig thinking that when the winter was done, this whole field would be replanted with soybeans. Same dirt—just depends what you put in it.
“Nola, in your art, in all the canvases I saw at your office—why were you always painting attempted suicides?”
“Why do you spend so much time around the dead, Mr. Zigarowski?”
“I told you. I like helping people. So. Why suicides?”
Nola was still sketching, working the outer edges of whatever she was drawing. Looked like a snake. Or a lake. Something long. “I don’t know. There are lots of kinds of deaths. Suicides just interest me.”
“It does more than interest you. It’s in every painting.”
“What are you getting at, Mr. Zigarowski?”
“I want to know if suicide—” He thought about when they were back at the motel, about the scars on her wrist. “Is it something you’ve thought about yourself?”
Nola said nothing. Her body went still and her hand stopped moving. She didn’t look up from her sketch. “Not for a while.”
For the next mile or so, the road continued to veer right, at one point intersecting with a narrow street called Strawberry Lane that held only an enormous steel-lattice transmission tower.
“Nola, during your time in the military, you ever meet a man named Dr. Robert Sadoff?” Zig finally asked.
Nola sensed a lecture.
“Sadoff works in my field, spends a lotta time around death,” Zig
added. “I saw him speak at a conference years ago—they call him the father of modern forensic psychiatry. When there’s a murder in the military—or anywhere, really—they would bring in Dr. Sadoff to testify. He’d use forensic science and medical details about the human mind, then tell the court whether the suspect had the mental competence to commit such a crime.”
“So he says whether people are crazy or not?”
“That’s his job. The real point is, Dr. Sadoff is a man of science. His decisions hinged on medical facts. But when I saw him speak, he insisted he was also a man of deep religious faith. Loved God. Said his prayers. And when someone asked about his faith, Sadoff traced it back to when he was five years old in his hometown of Minneapolis. One morning, a fire engine was flying toward an emergency when its driver missed a turn, sending the truck straight at the local drugstore that was owned by Sadoff’s father. The fire truck slammed headfirst into the prescription counter where Sadoff’s dad worked every day. But on that day,” Zig explained, “Sadoff’s dad had stepped out of work for a few hours to say religious prayers for a relative who had just passed away. For the rest of Dr. Sadoff’s life, this man of science pointed to this moment as absolute proof that the universe has a divine plan.”
Nola stared down at her sketch pad, thinking about it for nearly thirty seconds. “Not for me,” she finally offered.
“Me either,” Zig agreed, both of them smiling, then, to their own surprise, laughing. Actually laughing.
On Nola’s notepad, with another few lines, the picture slowly bloomed into view. It was a drawing of her extended leg, wrapped in its elastic Ace bandage and protected by the bionic-looking knee brace with its hinges and adhesive straps. From Nola’s point of view. Her wound.
“Y’know I knew her,” Nola blurted.
Zig glanced over, confused.
“Maggie,” she said, the words hitting like a bomb. “Your daughter.”
Zig’s head tilted almost imperceptibly. “I-I thought— Back at the funeral home…you said—”
“We weren’t friends. Never even sat near each other. But it was seventh grade. I knew who she was. Everyone knew who she was. I saw her every day.”
Zig sat there, staring straight ahead, trying so hard to listen. But Nola could see the way he was clutching the steering wheel like it was a life preserver.
“I can’t say she was ever really nice to me,” Nola added. “I don’t think we ever said two words to each other. But one day, at the end of gym class, everyone was playing Do It and You’re Cool—”
“Do It and You’re—?”
“It’s a game. Seventh grade. Someone dares you to do something, then everyone chants, ‘Do it and you’re cool! Do it and you’re cool!’ until you—”
“I get it.”
“Think Truth or Dare. But with less truth. And more assholeyness. Regardless, on this day, a girl named Sabrina Samuelson—”
“I remember Sabrina! She was in Girl Scouts.”
“I remember her too. Nasty little shit goblin who always wore a French braid and rhinestone Keds. On that day, Sabrina was leading the charge, demanding that I show everyone the tampon that she somehow spotted in my backpack. It was a trap, of course. If I took the tampon out, the entire seventh grade would know about my menstrual cycle; if I denied having one, they’d crucify me for being behind the curve,” Nola explained. “But there was Goblin Sabrina, riling up the crowd.
“Do it and you’re cool! Do it and you’re cool!” Nola chanted. “Omigod, she’s about to cry!” Nola recounted the tease with perfect clarity. Her voice returned to normal. “That wasn’t true. The only thing I was about to do was take the combination lock I was holding and smash it into Sabrina’s face.”
“I’m sorry they did that to you.”
“Stop apologizing. Just listen. The crowd was in a lather now—Do it and you’re cool! Do it and you’re cool!—and before I realized what was happening, your daughter Maggie appeared from nowhere. She was on her own mission, racing up to Sabrina, grabbing her by the arm, and telling her, ‘Lucas just asked out Charlotte M.!’
“In a fit of teenage giggling, Maggie and Goblin Sabrina went running, the crowd of prepubescent sheep now following them to a brand-new childhood nightmare.”
“Why’re you telling me this?” Zig asked.
“When they were leaving—Sabrina and Maggie—the two of them were leading the pack, running down the hallway from the central locker area, cackling like seventh-grade bitches. But just as they turned the corner and disappeared, Maggie glanced back over her shoulder. I saw it right there, Mr. Zigarowski—on her face—in her anxious green eyes. Even back then, I knew real concern when I saw it. When she pulled Sabrina away, Maggie knew what she was doing.”
“So you became friends?”
“Maggie never said another word to me. Not once. Not even after my ear got burned at the campfire. And I’m not saying she was some saint—she was too well aware of her own popularity for that. But on that particular day, when the crowd and the pitchforks were pointing my way, your daughter—” Nola paused, searching for the right phrase. She couldn’t find it. “You raised your daughter right.”
Zig was worried his voice would give him away. So he just nodded. He smiled. He clutched the steering wheel, amazed he was actually holding it together. That lasted a full three seconds.
Zig’s chin quivered first, then his lips, then the full emotional earthquake hit, sending shockwaves through his body, rippling upward as they climbed his face and squeezed the tears out from behind his eyes.
Nola wasn’t surprised. He’s a father. He missed his daughter.
And he did. He missed Maggie every day.
But for Zig, these weren’t tears that came from a loss. They were tears that accompanied a return. For fourteen years, Zig had grown accustomed to Maggie being gone, grown accustomed to having her birthday marked by quiet, or having the day she died be equally ignored. It was the most profound pain that death delivered: the utter numbness that comes from when you can’t get over it but somehow get used to it.
For fourteen years, Zig knew the contours of Maggie’s death. The rules of it. The limits. And then, with a single two-minute story about vengeful seventh graders, Zig had what he never thought he’d have again—new details of her life. And just like that, his daughter, his Little Star, was alive again. He had a new memory of her, something he never thought he’d ever get.
He was smiling now—and crying—doing both of them together as tears of joy pushed out from behind his eyes. “Nola,” he said, turning to her…
“You’re welcome,” she said, her eyes down, focused on her sketch pad. “And I’ll consider us even if you don’t hug me when we get to DC.”
Zig laughed, knowing she meant it. “Can I just—? What you said about Maggie—”
“Just enjoy the ride, Mr. Zigarowski. Can we do just that?”
“But what you said— I just need to know…that night at the campfire—”
“Enjoy the ride,” she insisted, pointing the tip of her pen toward the front windshield. Outside, the road stretched out in front of them, the orange sun so low, it turned the entire sky tangerine.
Breathtaking, Zig and Nola thought simultaneously.
Nola memorized the color for a future painting.
Next to her, in the driver’s seat, Zig hit the gas, still replaying Nola’s words in his head. Enjoy the ride.
And for the first time in a long time—in maybe fourteen years—he did.
92
Two weeks later
Balancing a six-pack of beer on his hip, Zig fumbled with his keys, fighting to turn the lock on his front door.
With a click, the door opened. He wiped his feet, the mat perfectly in place.
Heading for the kitchen, he pulled two receipts from his left pocket—one from lunch, one from Donnie’s Liquors—plus a folded-up business card from the peppy new woman who was just hired in Veteran Affairs. Every month brought new faces to Dover; few peopl
e could handle it for too long.
He threw it all in the trash.
Next to the toaster, his daughter’s red hair band was gone. These days, he was wearing it around his wrist.
“You have no messages,” the robotic answering machine announced as Zig hit the button in the kitchen. Just like the night before. And the night before that.
Two minutes later, Zig was in his backyard, ritual beer in hand.
“How’s everyone tonight, ladies?”
“Mmmmmmmmmmmmm,” the bees sang as Zig opened the roof of the hive and added some food—a homemade sugar-and-water mixture he called bee cupcakes.
As he slid into his favorite rusty lawn chair, Zig threw his coat aside. The weather had turned over the last few nights—it was still fifty-five degrees, but after the recent cold spell, Zig was determined to make the most of the respite.
“By the way, I met the new candy guy today,” Zig told the hive, which was buzzing with life, swarming the landing board. Bee cupcakes always kicked off a dance party. “Twix are out. New M&M’s with caramel are in. Can you imagine? No Twix? Blasphemy!” Zig said. “I mean, how do you even explain poor decision-making like that?”
“Mmmmmmmmmmmmm,” the bees hummed.
“I agree. Cultural bias. Like the SAT,” Zig said, taking a swig of beer, then licking a bit of excess from his lips.
For the next twenty minutes, Zig sat there in his lawn chair, nursing his drink and enjoying the private concert of the bees’ low-pitched mmmmmmmm. A crescent moon lit the sky; the cool air felt nice. It was a near-perfect night.
On his far left, past the barbeque, a single stray honeybee swirled in the air, making wobbly loop-de-loops and bouncing a few times off the wooden fence. Guard bee? No. This bee was bigger, longer. A forager. The ones who get to leave the hive, since they always come back.
Zig watched the bee do another shaky loop-de-loop, ramming itself yet again into the fence, like it was drunk or trying to escape. In reality, it was just old. Foragers were the elders, dying in huge numbers every season. But that didn’t slow them down.
In the next few months, with the arrival of the first blooms, full foraging would begin, thousands of bees flying up to four miles to get nectar and pollen to nourish their hive.
